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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123967">Half-way Through Dakota</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_faceless/pseuds/nameless_faceless'>nameless_faceless</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Awesome Bobby Singer, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer is Dean Winchester's Parent, Bobby Singer's House, Child Abuse, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Parental Bobby Singer, Past Child Abuse, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean Winchester, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smart Sam Winchester, Worried Bobby Singer, Young Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:40:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,181</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nameless_faceless/pseuds/nameless_faceless</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Above the motel, the streetlights bathed the parking lot in a warm yellow hue, dulling the wind's bite blowing off the prairie. This wasn't the first time Dean had ended up in the middle of buttfuck nowhere responsible for more that could be asked of him; the sign leading into town read 'A Great Place to Live' in weather-worn paint. Looking at the greasy tinted glass of the front office, Dean had a hard time believing that.</p><p> </p><p>Or- Going back to live with his father after spending time at Sonny's Boys' Home, Dean realizes that he and Sam need to get away from John's care. In an attempt to run away from their dad's abusive house, Dean takes Sam across the state of South Dakota to find refuge with their family friend, Bobby.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bobby Singer &amp; Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer &amp; John Winchester, Bobby Singer &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel &amp; Bobby Singer, Castiel &amp; Bobby Singer &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester, Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Mary Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel &amp; Jessica Moore, Castiel &amp; Mary Winchester, Castiel &amp; Sam Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester &amp; Mary Winchester, Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Impala &amp; Bobby Singer, Impala &amp; Dean Winchester, Impala &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; John Winchester &amp; Mary Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Impala &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Impala &amp; Jessica Moore &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Impala &amp; John Winchester, Impala &amp; Mary Winchester, Impala &amp; Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore &amp; Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore &amp; Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, John Winchester &amp; Mary Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester, Mary Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester, Ruby/Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>77</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello!</p><p>I'm new to writing and posting, so any feedback is really appreciated! I don't have an updating schedule yet, but I'll update you guys if it becomes important. Just let me know if you'd like scheduled posts (that would low-key make my day)!</p><p>I hope you like to read it as much as I liked to write it. If you're reading this note: thank you and I love you!</p><p>-nameless_faceless</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Above the motel, the streetlights bathed the parking lot in a warm yellow hue, dulling the wind's bite blowing off the prairie. This wasn't the first time Dean had ended up in the middle of buttfuck nowhere responsible for more that could be asked of him; the sign leading into town read 'A Great Place to Live' in weather-worn paint. Looking at the greasy tinted glass of the front office, Dean had a hard time believing that.</p><p>"Get your bag, Sam," said Dean, opening the trunk.</p><p>Reflected in the kaleidoscope of pull-tab posters and advertisements plastered to the edges of the window was a familiar scene: John, crumpled bills in hand, paying for the next week's lease. Jaundiced and worn, Dean's father faced the world with a scowl. Wrinkles cut through the craggy outline of his face, catching the light and settling into his face like old friends. The fluorescents' sickly glow didn't do John any favors, highlighting the grime caked to his figure. </p><p>Heaving his and his father's duffle bags over his shoulder, Dean slammed the trunk shut and began towards the silhouette of his Dad. Making sure his little brother trailed behind him, Dean counted the hours of work he would have in front of him before he could sleep. The middle of the night bearing down on him, it seemed to Dean that he would be working well into the morning. Sitting down on the curb outside of the front office, Sam and Dean stared aimlessly into the parking lot.</p><p>"How far are you into the new book?" Asked Dean, as moths battered themselves against the streetlamps' tinged light. </p><p>"I finished it in Rapid City. It was too easy anyway," sighed Sam.</p><p>The dime novel loose in hand, his little brother began to arrange the parking lot's gravel into lines scattering them after each row: biggest to smallest and then smallest to biggest, then back again. At eleven years old, Sam had already outgrown Dean's hand-me-downs. White socks peaked through the bottom hem of Dean's old pants, or more accurately, Sam's new capris. Dean had been a skinny knobby-kneed kid at his age, barely big enough to fit into those pants, let alone outgrow them. </p><p>"So what was this one about? Cowboys or vampires?" asked Dean. </p><p>"This one was both, I guess? I think the author tried to put a new spin on Western horror, but she lost track of her ideas halfway through," said Sam nonchalantly, Slaughterhouse Saloon slipping off of his hand and to the concrete left of the pebble pyramid.  </p><p>"They can't all be winners," shrugged Dean, as the moths continued their frantic dance under the fuzz of the light. </p><p>Dean had had a hard time finding Sam's books lately. Just like his clothes, the kid's mind seemed to outgrow what Dean could give him all too quickly. The most recent pickup had only lasted Sam a day. Looking at his little brother, Dean is washed in a wave of frustration. Sam deserves better than this, Dean thought. Pebbles organized halfway into a pyramid, Sam was oblivious to Dean's musing. The door behind them swung open as John walked out of the front office. Shoving the keys and twenty dollars into Dean's hand, John made his leave.</p><p> "I'm going out," snapped John, walking towards the Impala. Sparing a glance behind him, John gave Sam and Dean a once over. "Don't get me in any fucking trouble." </p><p>The Impala came to life under John's hand, carrying him to God knows where with God knows who for God knows how long. The twenty dollars sat limp in Dean's hand, not nearly enough for the coming weeks. Standing with a sigh, Dean gathered his and his father's bags and set off towards his home for the next couple of months. </p><p>Room 4B smelled worse than Dean thought it would. Two full-sized beds took up most of the room, their threadbare white sheets tucked lumpily under the mattress. Shag carpeting covered the floor in matted clumps, its original burnt orange long since faded with footfall and negligence.</p><p>"He really spared no expense," muttered Dean. "C'mon, Sam. Let's get started." </p><p>Without thinking, the boys fell into their usual routine. Dean headed to the bathroom with a half-filled gallon of bleach, gloves, and a very used sponge in hand. Meanwhile, Sam began stripping one of the beds, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. Throwing pillows and bedding aside as he went, the pile of linen on the floor grew until all that was left on the bed was a mattress pad. Fatigue settled into Sam's bones as he grabbed clean bedding from his brother's duffel. Since early that morning, he had been awake when John announced they would be skipping town again. With less than a day to prepare, he and Dean had had to pack up and cut ties once again. They had only stayed in Martin for a month. </p><p>"So what's the plan after this?" asked Sam, slipping a pillowcase over the lumpy hotel pillow. "T.V. or shopping?" </p><p>"Probably shopping," replied Dean poking his head out of the bathroom. Resisting the urge to cough, Dean continued scrubbing bleach into the tiles' blackened grout around the sink. </p><p>"The toilet's gonna have to soak, I think. Some of this shit isn't gonna come off in a night," said Dean gesturing to the blackened grime caked on the toilet bowl. Splashing another glug of bleach in the bowl to marinate, Dean shucked off his gloves and washed his hands in the newly cleaned sink. </p><p>"I saw a gas station about a mile down the road whenever you're done." Tucking in the edges of a thin yellow blanket, Sam finished up the bed. "They might have something to do, too." Whined Sam, "No offense, Dean, but you're kinda boring." </p><p>"Oh, so I'm the boring one! That's rich coming from Mr. Slaughterhouse Saloon." scoffed Dean walking out of the bathroom. "Go empty your backpack; you gotta carry some of the groceries too." Ruffling Sam's hair as he passed, Dean headed towards his duffel bag. Sam began opening the dresser drawers for his and Dean's clothes one step behind him. </p><p>"At least I read stuff; all you do watch T.V. and flirt with random strangers," smirked Sam. </p><p>"Shut up, turd." snapped Dean. "It just so happens that I read stuff too." </p><p>"What, the T.V. guide?" laughed Sam. </p><p>Glaring at his brother, Dean tucked the last of his stuff into the lower drawer, leaving the middle for Sam. This little shit is going to be the end of me, though Dean. Sam, smug in his victory, dumped his stuff in his drawer in one tangled heap. </p><p>"Ya know, Sam. I do have something exciting to tell you about," remarked Dean. "It's this crazy thing called 'folding' I don't know if you've ever heard of it?" </p><p>"I'll have you know that I can wear my clothes just fine without folding them. And It's not my fault that I can't fold them. Being the smarter, more handsome brother takes a lot of work, and I just don't have any energy left to worry about socks." huffed Sam </p><p>"Good comeback, dingus. Now get your backpack. We gotta get walking before I starve to death." </p><p>Closing the drawer, Sam grabbed his backpack and dumped its contents onto the newly made bed. Empty bag slung over his shoulder, Sam set off after his brother.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The crisp wind blew over the cusp of the prairie around them, leaving the soft smell of sage and rain in its wake. The brothers walked amicably beside each other: Dean ahead of his brother, as usual, Sam, chattering about his latest read. Twenty minutes later, the brothers approached the buzzing neon of the closest Chevron. A shabby little building, white stucco piped with cherry red fluorescents. The bell rang as the brothers slipped through the door. The gas station attendant turned her head, observing Sam and Dean with a sluggish glare.</p><p>"What're we gonna get?" whispered Sam, leaning into his brother to avoid the prying ear of the attendant. </p><p>"Why are you whispering, dude?" said Dean as he pushed Sam out of his purple circle. "We're just gonna buy food, man, don't sweat it." </p><p>Wandering through the isles, Dean picked through the meager selection. They didn't have a microwave in the hotel room, and that limited what he could buy by almost half. Eventually settling on a loaf of bread, some limp looking lunch meat he found in the back of the fridge, and a couple of bananas, Dean figured that he could stretch that for a week. </p><p>"Dean!" hissed Sam from behind him. "The lady won't stop looking at me, and it's freaking me out." </p><p>"Quit being dramatic!" exclaimed Dean in a hushed tone, trying to keep Sam from making a scene. Shopping was already stressful enough without having some paranoid little creep following him around. That kid has to cool it before I freak out, thought Dean as he walked to the front of the store to pay. </p><p>"You're not listening to me! I was looking at the magazines upfront, and she was staring at me the whole time, and I don't know why she looks so mad at me and-" Sam started again, hardly leaving Dean a one-second gap so that he could tell Sam to just shut up about it. Finally, Sam left enough of a gap in dialogue for Dean to tell him to fuck off temporarily until the goddamn grocery shopping was done. </p><p>"Well then, don't look back at her, stupid! I don't know! Quit bugging me. I'm almost done anyway."</p><p>"Fine." huffed Sam. "I'm just gonna go look at the books all by myself even though you never let me buy one anyways." </p><p>And with that, Sam stomped back over to the magazines, looking over one of the few books stuffed in between the rack's wooden slats. Dean knows how this goes whenever they get into a fight. Sam will ignore him just out of eyesight on the walk home until it's time for dinner when he'll let the whole thing go and eat his bologna sandwich in peace. That doesn't stop Dean from having to swallow down the lump of guilt building up in his throat. He knows that Sam is right. He knows that this place is sketchy. He knows that the only other person in the gas station is the bitter old attendant with more vendettas than teeth. And most of all, he knows that he can't get Sam the book he wants. Twenty dollars only go so far. Lost in thought, Dean the food up to the front to pay. The attendant looked as mean as Sam said. Her hair went down past her shoulders in over-moussed strings, frozen in sticky waves down her head. Yellow-stained nails grabbed hold of his basket. </p><p>"Six-fifty," snapped the attendant. Her lips were drawn up in a blackened snarl. Frosted pink lipstick highlighted her yellowing teeth: thin and eroded. </p><p>Handing over the money, Dean calculated what he has left for the next week: $13.50. If he kept up like this, he would only pay for one more week of food.</p><p>"Could you take off the bananas, please?" asked Dean. That would save him enough for a couple more grocery trips after this. </p><p>"Four-fifty," scowled the attendant. She snatched the money out of Dean's hand, looking him over like he had hidden a jar of peanut butter down his pants. "Take your bag." she sneered curtly. She might have well said, 'go to hell bastard,' thought Dean. </p><p>Dean headed over to the magazine rack, bag in hand. Leaning against the gas station's wall, Sam was fully engrossed in his newest find: Lonesome Dove. </p><p>"So what is it this time, Sammy?' asked Dean. "Cowboys or vampires?" </p><p>"Cowboys," muttered Sam. Reading the book with stars in his eyes, like it were the best thing he'd ever seen.</p><p>"C'mon." sighed Dean. "You gotta eat dinner, kid." </p><p>Lonesome Dove shoved haphazardly back through the slots, Sam followed after his brother, chattering about his latest read.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey, Guys!</p><p>I hope you're enjoying the fic! It should start picking up soon, so stay tuned for that! I was thinking about making a playlist to go with the story? (I'm going to make a playlist). </p><p>Have fun with the new chapter :0)</p><p>Love you!<br/>-Nameless Faceless</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been two weeks since John left and the wet death of April clung to the air. In an hour, the crisp morning sun would bathe the world in dewy light. But for now, the sky settled in thick velveteen blankets over the earth. Sighing, Dean rolled out of bed. The glowing red letters of the clock read 7:30.</p><p>The money his dad had given him was running out quickly. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Dean started the shower and stepped under the sputtering spray. The day hadn’t even started and he was exhausted. Their last grocery run had been for a jar of peanut butter and another loaf of bread that they were going through faster than Dean would like. The thought of Sam going hungry made his stomach twist uncomfortably.</p><p>Water droplets ran down the mirror, leaving streaks of clarity in the foggy mirror of the medicine cabinet. Nausea creeping up his throat, Dean quickly dried off and got dressed. He thought John would be back by now.</p><p> A fragile sense of security always followed John home. Sure, Dean had to walk on eggshells, and Sam was suspended in silence, but at least they didn’t have to worry about having enough money for bologna. And as frustrating as it was to say it, Dean missed the John who used to love him. </p><p>Memories of dusty summer evenings watching baseball, his father pushing through a turbulent sea of spectators just to get Dean a coke. Sitting in hard plastic seats, lulled by the soft hum of John’s voice as he explained how they wanted the hitter to strike out. The sturdy embrace of being carried back to the car, the sunset draping itself over them in silky reds and oranges. </p><p>Snapping out of his reverie, Dean stepped into the main room. Any love John held for them died with their mother, leaving a vindictive shell of who John was with Mary. It was hard for Dean not to feel betrayed: by his mother, by his father, by himself. Dean hadn’t liked John for a long time but there was still some self-destructive part of him who loved his dad, a part of him that hoped John would change.</p><p>Sitting down on the second, untouched bed, Dean looked to Sam, spread out like a starfish across their bed. He would need another round of clothes soon, his gangly limbs caught in another growth spurt. He would turn twelve next week and Dean didn’t know what to do for him. Usually, he and Sam would’ve been enrolled in school by now, class parties taking some of the pressure off of Dean. But John had left before Dean could get them enrolled. Sam had never had a birthday without a gift. </p><p>I have to figure something out, thought Dean. The last of their money wasn’t enough to cover dinner, let alone Sam’s gift. </p><p>Sam hadn’t been taking the lack of structure easily. School was where he thrived, where he found an escape from his home life. Through around half of the public schools in South Dakota, Sam had excelled. The kid was like a knowledge vacuum, embracing the familiar challenge of new course work and readings. Dean could tell that Sam was wilting under the dull fluorescents of their room. It’s only for a while, thought Dean, once dad gets back I’ll be able to get him enrolled. </p><p>But for now, Dean had more pressing issues. They were almost through with their second loaf of bread. With no sign of John coming back anytime soon, Dean needed to figure out what the fuck he was going to do. He had enough for maybe one more week of groceries, not even mentioning Sam’s birthday. If they were going to last into May, Dean was going to have to start stealing again. The knot in his stomach only grew as he rifled around in his duffle for his biggest jacket. Swallowing his guilt, he shrugged it on, the canvas draping comfortably over his shoulders. The pockets could easily fit a jar of peanut butter, Dean knew that for sure. </p><p>Slipping their last three dollars into his pocket, Dean set off towards the gas station. If he hurried, Sam wouldn’t even have to know he left. </p><p> Through the cacophony of worry in his head, Dean trudged down the road towards the gas station, wet leaves sticking and decomposing in gummy clumps under his shoes. Worst-case scenarios flashed through Dean’s head with every step; Sam’s gonna hate me because I can’t get him anything for his birthday, I’m going to run out of money and I can’t do anything about it, the motel owner is going to kick them out after John’s payment runs out and I’m going to have to figure out what to do with Sammy. </p><p>Arriving at the Chevron, Dean felt like he was going to throw up. He just had to stay under the radar: in and out. Bell ringing after him, Dean unzipped the top half of his jacket and walked into the store sporting a flimsy bravado. Walk with confidence and nobody will say anything, he thought in spiraled repetitions: his mantra of the day. </p><p>Making a beeline straight to the back of the station, Dean looked around at what he could get away with. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, the attendant’s eyes followed his every move. This would not be easy. Snagging a jar of peanut butter off of the shelf by the back wall, Dean slipped it into his jacket, zipping it up until the attendant wouldn’t notice the red Skippy lid peeking out of his pockets. </p><p>The bell about the door chimed. </p><p>“Mornin, Luanne,” said a deep voice. </p><p>“Mornin Jim, the usual?” the attendant rasped in her Marlboro drawl reaching towards the cigarette case behind her.</p><p>“Well not today Luanne,” responded the voice from the front. “I fought with the missus last night and she didn’t take too kindly to the idea of makin’ breakfast this morning. Just gotta pick something up before patrol.” </p><p>Through the window, across the parking lot sat the state trooper’s car. Grabbing his loaf of bread, Dean decided to get the fuck outta dodge. </p><p>“Two-fifty.” grumbled the attendant, her eyes skimming over Dean’s face. Her glare cloaked dean in a thin film of anxiety. </p><p>Handing over the last of his money, Dean kept his eyes firmly on the ground. The eggshell white of the tiles didn’t help him feel any less awful. Out of the corner of his eye, Lonesome Dove caught his attention. Sam hadn’t stopped talking about that stupid book since he first saw it, spending their grocery runs speed reading as much of the book as he could before Dean pulled him back to the motel room. The magazine rack was right by the door, and Dean knew what he had to do. </p><p>“Take your change.” said the attendant mid-cough. </p><p>Pocketing the coins with sweaty palms, Dean took one last look at the attendant. “Thank you, Ma’am,” he said quietly, grabbing the loaf of bread off the counter. </p><p>The attendant’s eyes were a piercing blue, black eyeliner circled them in thick rings. The state trooper, browsing the rows of prepackaged pastries, wasn’t paying Dean any mind. Walking as steadily as he could, Dean walked towards the magazine rack by the door. Calming his heart rate as best as he could, Dean purposely bumped into the rack swiping Lonesome Dove under his Jacket on his way out the door. </p><p>“The fuck do you think you're doing?” screeched the attendant from the counter. </p><p>Pushing his way out the door, Dean only made it halfway out of the parking lot before the state trooper got a hold of him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey Guys!</p><p>I hope you're enjoying the story, I'm having a really fun time writing it! </p><p>Before this chapter begins, I just wanted to warn you of some harsh language that may be triggering. During the chapter, John says the F slur, once. I really sincerely do not want to make anyone uncomfortable or upset! I thought a lot about posting this, and if you have any problems with the language or archive ratings PLEASE TELL ME!! I want this story to be for everyone and if this type of language makes you feel excluded, I'll edit it out of the chapter and forgo any usage in the future. </p><p>That being said, this chapter is from Sam's perspective. I thought I'd try to switch it up. Sometimes I get a little bored reading slow-burn fics from only one perspective. Let me know what you think! If Sam's chapter is liked he may become a regular in the perspective rotation! </p><p>Thank you for reading, love you guys! :0)<br/>-Nameless Faceless </p><p>(P.S. please please please comment!! Let me know what you wanna see in the story! Cas is coming in soon!!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Where the fuck's your brother?" kicking off his boots, John emptied his pockets onto the dresser. The smell of sweat and beer rolled off of him in waves. He walked through the room as if he'd never left. </p><p>"Dunno," mumbled Sam nervously, "He was gone when I woke up, and I haven't seen him since." </p><p>It had been three days since Dean had disappeared, and Sam didn't know what to do next. After a few days of looking around, he had called it quits and decided to wait in the room. There was only so much he could do without the adults around him getting suspicious. His eyes stung at the thought of his brother. Dean wouldn't just do this. </p><p>"What do you mean you don't know? He's your goddamn brother, Sam." snapped John. "Where the fuck did he go?" </p><p>"I dunno. He never told me." flushed Sam, tears building in his eyes. John was staring at him. "He was just gone, and I tried to look for him, but I didn't wanna get in trouble." </p><p>"Quit crying. You look like a fag." spat John as he turned away from Sam. </p><p>The showerhead sputtered to life, and John closed the bathroom door behind him. </p><p>Sam sat as close as he could to the corner where his and Dean's bed met the wall. Pangs of hunger twisted and melded with the anxiety in his stomach, and he couldn't stop tears from sliding down his face. His brother was gone, and it was his fault. His dad was right, Dean had had enough of his shit, and now he was dead. Fuzzy panic crept up Sam's throat, coiling itself, like a snake, out of his mouth and around his neck. His breathing constricted and came in quick muffled gasps. Dean was never coming back, and it was his fault. Sam would be stuck with John forever, and he would deserve it. </p><p>Steam slipped out from under the bathroom door. The muddled hum of the shower crowded Sam's mind. Eyes glazing over, the wallpaper's dated hue blurred across Sam's field of vision. Mind fading into the familiar embrace of oblivion, Sam thought about his older brother. He wished he would've been able to say goodbye. He wished he didn't have to be here anymore. He wished Dean would've taken him away too. </p><p>White noise filled his ears in a blaring cacophony, shutting him away from the rest of the world in a frantic haze. </p><p>"-'re you doing!"</p><p>A burning handprint stretched itself across Sam's face. John stood in front of him, a towel wrapped around his waist. </p><p>"Look what you made me do, you stupid shit," growled John. "Go get some ice and put on your shoes." </p><p>Sam, still facing the slap's direction, watched the blurred lights of the cars rocket down the freeway. His face stung badly. His head felt tangled and unfocused. Grabbing the ice-bucket from the bedside table, Sam put on his shoes.</p><p>John was dressed when Sam got back, a half-smoke Marlboro held between his lips. </p><p>"Put the ice in this. Get in the car," said John, throwing Sam a pillowcase. Dean's pillow was naked on the bed. Sam followed his father to the car. The pillowcase smelt too much like Dean. With ice and fatigue, grown-up numbness settled over Sam. There was nothing he could do.</p><p>Through the bitter landscape of South Dakota, Sam could see Dean and himself with Captain Call. Riding through the wild west, away from John. Sun scorched sage pulled him into the grips of elsewhere. Pushing everything else out, Sam slipped into a familiar daze. Plots and fantasy unfolding, to him, like a map that would lead him home: to a family he left behind before he could know it. </p><p>The Impala rumbled them through the empty streets. Sam had never been to this part of town before. Buildings sat on the edges of perfect squares of parking-lot, weeds peaking their way through cracks in the asphalt. A squat stucco building sat in the middle of the parking lot, cop cars lined the front row. Sam's dad hated cops. </p><p>"Stay in the car," said John. Sam's father walked into the Police Station. The ice melted down from Sam's cheekbone and dribbled down his chin. </p><p>Captain Call was on his way to Montana with Sam and Dean by his side. They told stories, stopped bandits, and rode towards the setting sun.</p><p>The air inside the car was cold now. Sam hadn't brought a jacket. </p><p>He and Dean were in a saloon, now. They were laughing at a gambling table. Dean is really good at cards, thought Sam. </p><p>The front door of the Impala opened, and John sat down. </p><p>"Your brother's gone. Pack up your shit." </p><p>The warm, dry air of the Western sun enveloped them.  He and Dean were together. He and Dean were happy.</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
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    <p>“So what’d he take?” asked Sonny. The soft embrace of the early summer sun cut through the single-paned window behind them. Dean was handcuffed on the couch, sitting perpendicular to the asshole officer and some dude with a handle-bar mustache.</p><p>“Get this-- peanut butter and bread,” said the officer, whose glaring gaze turned to Dean. Under the officer’s sunglasses, a black eye had already begun to form. </p><p>“And what about family?” asked the mustache man. He was rifling around in the drawers of the beat-up desk that sat across from Dean. A thousand little manila folders had been crammed in like sardines. The drawers dipped with each movement, sagging under the weight of the records.</p><p>“Well, his old man called. Once he found out what happened, he said to let him rot in jail,” laughed the officer. </p><p>Dean’s heart dropped, heat rushing to his face. It was Sam’s birthday tomorrow. He was planning on throwing a party. He’d dropped lonesome on the ground when the officer grabbed him a little too hard; memories of John ran through Dean’s mind in frantic waves. Without thinking, Dean turned around and punched the officer right in the face. Hard. But that didn’t matter now because Sam’s out somewhere with Dad, and he hit a cop: handcuffed halfway into the middle of dirt-land nowhere with no way out. </p><p>“--ishing trip. Boy’s too young to leave in County. So we thought it best he stay here till arraignment.” finished the officer, looking towards the mustache man.</p><p>“I don’t see why not, man.” said the mustache guy, grabbing a thick stack of papers from the officer. “Where’d you get the shiner?” asked the mustache guy over his nose. </p><p>The officer’s face flushed. “I-I didn’t,” muttered the officer. Dean’s silent laughter erupted from behind them. Head dipped down, Dean sat handcuffed on the couch and tried to stop himself from laughing.</p><p>“If that’s all you need, Sonny, I’m gonna go,” muttered the officer. Face red with a mix of anger and embarrassment. Turning away from them both, the officer walked out the door without another word. Dean hadn’t stopped laughing.</p><p>“You shouldn’t do that, kid,” said the mustache guy. He put the stack of papers into an empty manila folder. </p><p>“Why? Because he’s a cop?” asked Dean, sarcastically. This wasn’t his first ‘respect-those-who-protect-and-serve’ speech, and quite frankly, he wasn’t really feeling like being lectured right now. He could tell his wrists were beginning to bruise, the overly-tight embrace of the handcuffs reminded Dean of his father’s freakouts, and he still didn’t know where Sam was. </p><p>“Because when you make him mad, he leaves with the key.” said the mustache guy. </p><p>Heat rushed to Dean’s cheeks; this was the worst day of his life. His sleeves had ridden up when the deputy pushed him around, and you could see the bruises that coated his arms. The arresting officer hadn’t taken so kindly to Dean’s attempted escape. Hot tears stung the corners of Dean’s eyes.</p><p>“Don’t sweat it,” said the mustache guy. He was facing Dean, now. His face was tan and relaxed. Light wrinkles were creased across his forehead, crows-feet were beginning to form around his eyes. He grabbed a paper clip and sat down on the edge of the coffee table, across from Dean. </p><p>The mustache guy grabbed the handcuffs. Sucking in a breath, Dean tried to make himself calm down. His heart was racing; there was no way for him to move away from the mustache guy. He could feel the guy’s piercing gaze staring at his arms and wrists. </p><p>Dean wasn’t an idiot. He knew that his arms looked terrible. Layers and layers of bruising coated them. Some from his father, some from the deputy, and some from the handcuffs: all in different stages of healing. </p><p>“Deputy do that?” asked the mustache guy. He was really serious all of a sudden. Dean kept his eyes on the floor and shook his head no. “What, your old man?” </p><p>Dean didn’t say anything.</p><p>“Well then how’d you get ’em?” the mustached guy was getting frustrated. He wanted an answer. </p><p>Dean steeled himself and looked right into the mustache guy’s face. “I got them from a werewolf,” said Dean. This guy needed to learn not to ask questions he didn’t want the answers to, thought Dean. Everyone gets knocked around, but you don’t just ask people shit like that. At least not in Dean’s experience. </p><p>The mustache guy did quick work. Before Dean could process it, the pinching pressure of the cuffs had been released. Rubbing the throbbing pressure out of his wrists, Dean was finally able to take in the room. They were in the sitting room of an old farmhouse. The walls were painted a soft yellow, and the room smelled faintly of laundry detergent. </p><p>“How do you know I won’t just run away?” asked Dean. He had to get back to Sam but making sure the weird guy with a huge mustache wasn’t going to murder him in the middle of a soybean field was pressing business. The mustache guy hadn’t said anything since he saw Dean’s arms. It was going on for about five minutes, now. Dean was starting to feel uncomfortable. </p><p>The mustache guy was messing with the folders again. “Cause you’re hungry, kid. Noone steals peanut butter and bread for fun.” He pulled a pen from one of the drawers. “Now, what’s your name, kid?” </p><p>“Dean Winchester,” muttered Dean. As much as he hated to admit it, the mustache guy was right. He was hungry. He hadn’t eaten since the night before when one of the officers on shift at the holding cell gave him a bag of chips from the vending machine. </p><p>“Well, Dean, it looks like we’ll be seeing a lot of each other the next couple of months,” said the mustache guy while writing Dean’s name down on the folder. He shoved Dean’s record into one of the desk drawers and then turned around to face Dean. “My name’s Sonny, and I’m in charge around here. Let’s go get you something to eat, and I’ll tell you about the rules.”</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey Friends!</p><p>Here's the next chapter, let me know what you think! I had a really hard time writing this one, but I think I just set myself up for plotline success.</p><p>I post every Saturday unless I don't feel like it :0) </p><p>Things are going to start picking up, friends! Let me know what you think in the comments!</p><p>-Nameless Faceless</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I missed Sam's birthday, thought Dean as he stared up at the yellowed plaster of the ceiling. The corners of the room met at the ceiling light, rising up in lopsided lines. Dean hadn't been able to sleep in the unfamiliar room. The other boys staying at Sonny's filled the bunk beds, the sound of sleep suffocating the space.</p><p>Guilt and anxiety clouded Dean's head. He hadn't been able to give Sam Lonesome Dove. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye. </p><p>He didn't know how long he would be here, and he didn't know what that would mean for Sam. The kid was smart, sure, but how long can a twelve-year-old take care of themself? When Dean was that age, John was skipping town for a couple of days at a time. Sam has to deal with months.  </p><p>Dean had only been at Sonny's for a night, but restlessness squirmed around his psyche. He wasn't used to being this still. He felt helpless and stuck. Sam was out there with John somewhere, and Dean was eating three square meals a day. </p><p>It became hard for Dean to swallow, panic nearly filling his lungs to the brim. Tears stung his eyes, and he forced himself to choke them back. Crying wouldn't help anything. He already fucked up. </p><p>Early summer light had begun to find its way into the room, and the rest of the boys would be awake soon. He didn't have the energy to deal with that today. Dean slipped out of the sheets, grabbed his clothes off the floor, and left for the bathroom. </p><p>Last night when Sonny showed him around, he had assigned Dean a cabinet to keep all his toiletries. And since Dean didn't think to bring a toothbrush with him when he was arrested, Sonny had filled it too. </p><p>His reflection in the medicine cabinet's mirror was gaunt. Since the last time John ditched them, he had lost weight, and the clothes Dean had worn yesterday looked baggier than they usually did, and Dean couldn't bring himself to care. The thought of Sam alone with their dad made him nauseous anyways.</p><p>Dean pulled the toothbrush and toothpaste out of his toiletry bag and decided that ignoring his reflection would be for the best. He spat the foamy mess of toothpaste in the sink.</p><p>Dean forced himself out of the bathroom. He hadn't had a chance to see anything outside the house. According to what Sonny told him last night, they were in the middle of re-fencing the ranch. Dean didn't know what that meant. </p><p>The stairs spit him out into the living room where he was handcuffed yesterday. The cuffs had left thin purple rings around his wrists, something else to add to the collection of bruises spotting his arms and legs. </p><p>"You got any other clothes, kid." </p><p>Sonny stood between Dean and the entrance to the kitchen. A blush rose up Dean's neck through to his forehead. </p><p>He didn't have any other clothes. </p><p>"No," said Dean. He hoped the ground would swallow him whole. He hadn't been able to swing a new summer wardrobe since Sam started growing faster than Dean could keep up with. He felt like crying again, thinking about Sam. He would need new pants soon, thought Dean. I should be there to get him new pants. </p><p>"C'mon then," said Sonny, turning back into the kitchen. "We have some extras in the back closet." </p><p>The kitchen was a thin hallway, with a stove on the left and a counter on the right. There was a pot of something bubbling on the stove. Dean didn't ask. Sonny led him into a mudroom filled with enough shoes and coats to clothe a small army. </p><p>"This is where you'll leave your work clothes. Always remember to take your work boots off in here, don't be tracking dirt all through the house," said Sonny, rifling through a closet in the back right corner. "Now, what size do you wear, kid?" </p><p>"Dunno," muttered Dean. He didn't exactly get to choose his sizes. He wore what he got for cheap or for free. His heart was hammering, now. He wanted out of this room and away from Sonny. </p><p>"I'm gonna say small." sighed Sonny. Sonny turned and handed him a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. "That'll do for now. We'll go out and get you some stuff this weekend. Lemme know if they don't fit, okay, kid?" </p><p>If God struck him dead right there, he'd be okay with it. His palms were sweaty against the t-shirt and the pair of jeans Sonny had given him, and Sonny kept looking at him like he was a kicked puppy. He had to get out of this situation. Immediately.</p><p>"I'm gonna go change," muttered Dean, as he pushed past Sonny into the main room. </p><p>"Breakfast is in 30," Sonny called from behind him. </p><p>The walk up the stairs was the longest, most anxious, hell-trek of his life. His thoughts were torn between the pressing problem of learning the ins and outs of living at Sonny's and the gnawing guilt and anxiety that flooded his mind. Sam was still out there somewhere. How could he just sit here with some fucking jeans while his twelve-year-old kid brother was just out there somewhere? </p><p>Deciding to avoid the room full of his sleeping peers, Dean yanked open the bathroom door. </p><p>"WHAT THE FU-" shouted a gravelly voice from inside.</p><p>"Sorry!" shouted Dean. "Didn't know you were there!" </p><p>That guy had really blue eyes, thought Dean, as he got as far away from the bathroom as possible.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Update!</h2></a>
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    <p>Hey, Guys!</p><p>I hate to be the bearer of bad news, however, I have some bad news. I know that I haven't posted in a few weeks and I'm really sorry to keep you guys hanging. I'm a full-time student right now and I'm hurtling headfirst into finals, so I'm going to put Half-way on a tiny pause until this summer. I already storyboarded the whole thing, and it took me all Christmas break so trust me when I say I'm coming back!</p><p>I hope you guys aren't upset, see you around May!</p><p>-Nameless Faceless</p><p>If you're reading this, I love you extra today :0)</p>
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